🙂 This entry comes with a warning beforehand, I apologize beforehand If I offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities.

We all live in a village. A village consists of people who are gentle, cultured and have the same sensibilities which the city counterparts have but with one difference. They are cruder and sometimes the words they use are not in the lingo of the society we live in. They are extinct or are part of a dying folklore.
Imagine, when a person walks up to the doorstep and says in chaste Punjabi, in all seriousness, no humor no joke, ”I have to go for a Bhadhan ceremony; I need money.’

My mother-in-law who is also the Sarpanch of the village came inside and repeated this. Well, what to say, I cracked up and could not stop laughing. It brings to my ears however small they might be and to my brain an image whereby there might be a cultural activity in my parts where there might be a farting ceremony.
Nothing as crude as this. Bhadhan is not farting; it is a mundan ceremony. It is not the passing of bodily gas, or flatulence and it is not used in the commonly vulgar way as set by the standards of the modern English world.
Bhadhan ceremony is where they shave off the male child’s hair at the age of 3.

Just read this with a pinch of salt and don’t squirm your pretty nose up; you ain’t Cleopatra you see. She had all the dibs in the world to turn her nose 😉

Dear Sarpanch ji,
Sat Sri Akal!
I have a complaint. My cow is tied near the village dump “dher” and when I go to milk her in the evening, she is already been milked. After a few days of observation slyly, it has been that a pair of snakes living there milk her.
It is my humble request that strict, fast and effective action be taken. As I cannot, say or do anything to Naag Devta (serpent god), you please help me out.
I am scared and you are my last resort for justice. Bindu, the Nai (hair-dresser) and Sheela Jheer are also witness to this.
Yours,
Ramu

This is not a figment of imagination,
nor have I gone cuckoo.
It is not even a daydream of any sorts,
nor do I have a fetish for cows and buffalos.
My association with them is till the clean non-smelly milk I want for my beverages and my cereal. Villagers are a naïve simple lot. In fact superstition plays a major role in influencing their daily lives. With visits to the Pir Sahib‘s dargah every Thursday (customary), to light a chirag in the honor of the spirits, and with young unmarried girls leaving plastic dolls to find good matches. They also believe in the Khwaja who resides in the village chapar (pond) who if given daliya (broken porridge) fulfills wishes.

For the lot in my pind, it is these simple beliefs, the faith is so strong that it overrides all rationale thought. Try explaining, to them that all is superstition, a mind belief which is deep rooted, old and ancient, and they will shrug it off and say, ‘Biji, eh sab hunda hain,’ Bas, simple as that! You cannot go beyond that.

Maybe the snakes were escapees from a B-grade Bollywood movie and needed to spend time alone to live happily after. I mean all that trauma they go through in the movies, the thunder, the lightening, change in to human form and then never to consummate their love and to be separated as ill crossed lovers, this quiet and beautiful village is their refuge from life.

What’s in a name? That which we call a Rose.
By any other name would smell so sweet.
{Romeo and Juliet (11, ii, 1-2)}

What’s in a name you would say?
The bard has so much to say on this and I would not try to mix Punjabi and English but my Pind has these interesting names which would get your goat too. The morning starts with people walking in from all walks of life and asking for some kind of help and they are perpetually scared to visit the government officials to expedite their work. Well, yesterday was no less. I was enjoying my cup of tea (endless cups by the way) that the bell rang. I went outside expecting a bunch of old women who would have their list of ailments ranging from PP (BP – blood pressure, that is), dil da daura being fast and, even gas.

A tall man with a flowing beard with kajjal in his eyes asked to meet Daarji, my father-in-law. Guess, his name —Phannii.
Phannii urf Funny, seriously wanted to meet Daarji so that he could discuss potatoes. A serious discussion on potatoes with a man named Phannii/Funny. Funny Singh is a responsible citizen of Pind Q who works on the farm, knows his business and is called by old and young as Funny. The catch or the sweetness of the situation is that nobody, I mean nobody, knows what Funny literally means.
In this world where we all are seeking an identity, a name what would you say about someone who is tall and strapping, wears kajjal and is called Funny?
Smile, please.

Sema, the local plant doctor

Our village Q is primarily agrarian, nothing new you would say. Well, a background. Here, everyone works for the bigger landlords. Q is a mixed motley of Sikhs, Hindus with a sprinkling of Muslims and a few odd Christians who have names which started out as English but became Punjabicized. Bladder, named after the football bladder, the village cowherd, and Sema, adapted from Sam, the affimchi (one who is an addict to poppy husk) are the two English names. In fact, Sema is the local plant doctor on the farm. If you looked at him, you would look at the craggy wizened face and you would dismiss him at the first instance but he has so much practical knowledge and is the green fingers of the village. What keeps him going is his daily fix taken every morning. Yes, he is an addict, a harmless one at that, who just farms away his life.

Chhinda and the Buffalo

It is a daily practice for the cattle to be milked two times a day and milk is brought for distribution after keeping a specific amount at home. I asked the helper, how come the milk of a specific buffalo had dropped considerably?
This was my attempt at being smart, cocky and being a know-it-all thinking that I, a city-bred girl being initiated into this secret world that had been alien to my upbringing, could out-smart the guy as the quantity of milk being brought in was dropping considerably. Well, I was never prepared for this retort.
Chinda, the milkman looked up and said, “Biji, the cow has low BP!”
I was in splits! How did a cow get Blood Pressure? And if she did, how did he check her? How did he know that this was the reason? Man, I was stumped and have not stopped laughing ever since. His expression and the way he delivered his reply, that she has blood pressure – the reason why the level of the milk has dropped, was priceless.
I had no answer to this effective reply and found myself unable to challenge his acumen. Well, who says you need a college degree?

Tomorrow is another day and I’d like to tell you about the letter sent to the Sarpanch (village head) complaining about the cow who was being mysteriously milked by the pair of snakes living near by!

Punjab is dotted with numerous villages which together roll in to one to give it its identity, its strength and importantly, the unique among all identities – flavour, which is unparalleled. Call them hamlets, ‘Pind’, ‘Kasba’, settlements or ‘Vaseelas’, they are fiercely independent guarding their identity. Some are big others, small or medium sized, sprawling or crammed to the gills or miniscule, you name it, they are there.
Every village has a story to tell. Before their unique characters gets wiped out by the advancement of technology, the rapid pace of modernization which is leaving them neither here nor there, I’d like to share some anecdotes…

For obscurity sakes, let’s call my pind (village) Q. Google maps zeroes on it with a lot of difficulty only when given the co-ordinates. Its interesting the the village with a similar name can be found in 6 different places in Punjab. With due respect to certain parts of the state which are modern, are well into the 21^st century and are ready for their tryst with history, mine, sadly, is a misfit. It is struggling with the usual ills of life – drugs, alcohol, lack of amenities, small size holdings – which are dwindling go the dream of flying to ‘baahar’. We have all watched movies, seen documentaries highlighting village life and its hardships. But, I wanted to bring out the positive part for we all do need some colour in the shades of grey which is inhabiting our lives.

The simplicity, innocence of the village folks, their naivety and complete faith in the system is unbelievable. They are removed from what you and I think about – the politics, the budget, the impending solar storm, the end of the world in December or, whether Einstein wrote love letters to his cousin or got married to her. In a country where girls are killed for even marrying in the same village, inter-caste marriages are frowned upon; who wants to know about old love or new, for that matter?

Life in the villages was basic, is basic and will remain basic as how far the Rupee can be stretched. Their main worry in life is in getting a permit – a neela card (blue card) and not the next platinum credit card.